


Sunrise

by peasantswhy, SavioBriion



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Depression, Gen, Healing, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rivendell | Imladris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavioBriion/pseuds/SavioBriion
Summary: Glorfindel returns to Middle-Earth. Settling into a new Age is not easy.TRSB2018 collab. Art by peasantswhy.





	Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Arda belongs to Tolkien; I’m just borrowing his world and characters for a while. 
> 
> This Glorfindel is a little more, well, depressed than how I usually conceive him, but I promise there is a happy ending. (It was painfully meta, writing this while I myself was dealing with a bad bout of depression.) I’m playing with canon a bit – in this fic Glorfindel returns alone, not in the company of Alatar and Pallondo; they come later, possibly in the company of their fellow Istari. And it’s always been my headcanon that Glorfindel’s mother was kin to Elenwë. Some of these ideas were developed in role-play or conversation with [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan); thank you, dear! And a special shoutout to [Raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana) for betaing this for me at the last minute – thank you. <3 
> 
> My wonderfully talented artist, [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy), depicted Erestor with darker skin. As a WOC myself I gladly seized on this, and so in this fic most of the Noldor have dark skin; Glorfindel, as a fair and blond Vanyarin Elf, is almost the odd one out. (Elrond’s heritage is so mixed that it’s entirely up to you.) 
> 
> Banner made by me, using peasantswhy's artwork and a photo I took at Cameron Highlands.
> 
> Trigger warnings: depression, panic attacks, nightmares.

 

Something about the dim, cool greyness of Mandos seeps into the fëar that dwell there, colouring their existence and overlaying all else. Ever since the initial shock of finding himself there, Glorfindel has felt strangely calm and serene, even when reunited with Ecthelion and Turgon and Aredhel and others; there had been joy, but strangely muted. A hush lies over everything. The shades dwelling there sometimes whisper to each other, but for the most part they are quiet, meditating on their lives or watching the tapestries of their loved ones.

The only bits of colour, though still muted, come from the tapestries that are everywhere in the Halls, showing the lives of Ilúvatar’s children. Those who dwell in the Halls often find themselves at a tapestry showing a loved one still dwelling on Arda, following their lives until the dull ache of vicarious vitality grows too much to bear; they drift away in silent meditation or soft discussion with others, until the tapestries call them again.

Eventually Glorfindel is escorted by Námo through a small, nondescript door, and finds himself in the gardens of Lórien, in a new body. After his disembodied time in the Halls, everything is new and strange and almost painful; it takes him a moment to remember how to breathe, gasping on all fours on soft-sharp grass that rustles too loudly in the breeze. The light of Lórien hurts his eyes, and the breeze feels strange and cold against his new skin. Locks of the golden hair he had been named for fall forward into his line of sight, and he winces and pushes them back, remembering a fiery hand wrapping around them.

“It is always a little strange at first, being so newly reborn,” a soft voice says, and he looks up, shading his eyes against the light. A tall figure stands there, dove-grey silk falling over gentle curves, and a soft dark hand rests on his shoulder; he feels calmer, and the sensory assault ceases. Estë helps him stand up slowly, and her smile is perhaps the loveliest thing he has ever seen. She wraps his naked body in a tunic that clasps at the shoulders, and drops a kiss on his brow that feels like every lullaby his mother ever sang to him.

“Come,” she murmurs. “Your parents are eager to see you, and those you loved on Arda are also being reborn. And then, Laurefindil, I am sorry, but we have a request to make of you.”

* 

How can you deny the Valar? Glorfindel spent his first life first and foremost as a soldier devoted to his liege-lord. He supposes that his second life will be no different. 

*

Although Glorfindel had dwelt in Vinyamar he had never really been to sea, and so the journey back to the shores of Middle-Earth, despite being sped along by Ulmo and bypassing Númenor, was not entirely pleasant. He feels vaguely relieved to see the unfamiliar coastline, with its tall white towers gleaming in the golden light of sunrise.

He had been given armour, and a new banner wrought by Vairë, but he leaves them bundled at the bottom of his little boat; there is a pennant, anyway, fluttering in the wind. The sight of the familiar golden-rayed sun against the fine green fabric is strange, and he is not sure it is suitable – after all, his House is no more. He had seen them fall one by one, in Gondolin and later in a tapestry showing the Havens of Sirion.

Still, he has been seen; other boats have come out to escort him in, and he knows Círdan awaits him on the shore. He was given messages to pass on, and he has a duty to carry out.

*

Some days Glorfindel can barely breathe under the weight of so much change.

Gondolin, like most of Beleriand, lies under the waves, and everyone he had known in his first life is either dead or has sailed West (or, as in Eärendil’s case, has become a star). Arda is much changed, even leaving aside the sinking of Beleriand. The air is warmer somehow, and he has to focus to understand what people are saying, and to shape his own words in Sindarin without his Gondolin accent seeping through. Morgoth is gone, though Sauron endures.

He lies awake at night, a parade of faces passing through his mind: his parents, Ecthelion, Egalmoth, Rog, Turgon, Idril, Aredhel, Elenwë, Eärendil, even Maeglin. In the mornings it feels as though he is putting on a mask when he dresses and prepares to face the day.

Lindon is strange to him, old and yet new. Ereinion Gil-galad is a good king, but he is not Turgon. Seeing Elrond is painful; he has the same eyes as Turgon, and something of Idril and little Eärendil in his mien, and yet this grown half-Elf is Eärendil’s son and distant kin to Glorfindel himself. And even they, like most other Elves he meets, look at him with something like awe in their eyes; it makes him want to shrink in on himself, and cry _No, I am nothing special, I barely took down one Balrog and fell myself in the process, and I can scarcely function here_.

Elrond is, apparently, a Healer, and his piercing eyes, so like Turgon’s, do not miss much; eventually he looks at Glorfindel with something approaching sadness and pity, and speaks to him gently, and Glorfindel cannot bear that either right now.

Perhaps the only Elf whose regard he can bear is the High Counsellor. He had been introduced to so many of Gil-galad’s court that they had all been a blur of names and faces, but he remembers Erestor, who had greeted him soon after Elrond. Erestor was nearly as tall as himself, and those cool green eyes had regarded him almost as if looking for something, assessing him. He had been civil enough before Glorfindel had been rushed on, and now they sometimes pass each other in the library with a quiet nod.

*

Glorfindel often lies awake at night, not wanting to fall asleep and face his dreams and yet knowing that he needs rest, feeling the exhaustion in his bones.

 _He can barely believe that he has **won**. But he has, and the path is clear, and his people are safe – unlike Ecthelion, unlike Turgon, and he shoves that grief down until there is time for it. _

_He turns to face the fleeing refugees of Gondolin – Eru, that is a strange word to use for his people, his home is **gone** – and just as he breathes in, fire and shadow wrap around his hair and tug. _

_He screams as he falls, and the last thought he registers is that the smell of burning meat and hair is **himself** before – _

Glorfindel startles awake, clawing at the bedclothes, drenched in sweat and still shaking all over, chest tight, breath constricting, shadow and flame and pain and burning and agony –

Someone is knocking at the door, and through the haze he finally truly registers his surroundings and realises that he must have been screaming in life as well as in the dream.

It takes him a few more moments, but he controls himself enough to rise and stumble to the door and apologise to the Elf who had the misfortune of living nearby. In the morning he quietly seeks out Boridhren, who manages the mundane day-to-day affairs of the palace, and asks that his room be soundproofed.

It is not a solution, but at least it saves other Elves from his interruptions to their slumber, and it saves him from the shame of waking them and facing their sleepy concern.

*

Elves keep approaching him, their eyes wide and full of awe.

“You are Glorfindel! Of Gondolin! You killed a Balrog! You were sent back by the Valar!”

 _Yes_ , he thinks even as he makes himself smile at them and nod a little in acknowledgement. _I know that._

“You must be so brave! What was it like, in Aman? Do you find Arda very different? What do you think of the High King? What was Turgon like?”

The first few times it hurts to think of everything he has lost, mentioned so casually, and he quietly says so. They step back, wrong-footed and confused, and he soon learns that they do not want his genuine pain and grief; they want the glittering emissary of the Valar. He grows practiced in soft rote answers and in telling them what they want to know.

*

Most days are fine: he wakes, lying in bed for long moments as he grounds himself in the present and reminds himself of the tasks for that day. He rises, refreshes himself, dresses, and heads out to the hall where the others are eating breakfast, mask firmly in place.

He goes to meals, attends trainings and meetings, helps out around the barracks sometimes, and lets Elrond pull him aside on occasion. He talks to people and answers their questions, and learns the rhythms of life in a new Age.

At night he lies awake and thinks of the Halls.

*

Today is not a good day. Generally, on such days, Glorfindel finds an excuse to stay in his rooms, but today had taken him by surprise. He had found a book in the library, a slim collection of poetry and funny little tales that had been written during the last days of Gondolin; it had been an attempt by a member of Egalmoth’s House to spread some cheer in those tense days. Glorfindel, as Egalmoth’s friend, had been given a copy, the binding still new and stiff, the pages crisp and the little illustrations fresh in the corners, and he had read it while on watch in the hidden city and laughed about it with Ecthelion.

There is another copy in Lindon’s library, on a shelf of books so old that they require gloves to be handled; he will probably be scolded later for having simply picked it up, but he had recognised the spine.

The binding is cracked and fragile and delicate, the pages soft and worn and speckled in brown, and the tales and poems he had read on watch are faded but familiar. It is old, a relic of a bygone age, and yet a link to lost Gondolin. He remembers finding Ecthelion’s broken body, and seeing Egalmoth fall in a tapestry of Arvernien, and something in him constricts.

He finds himself sitting on the floor against a bookcase, knees bent and forehead pressed against them as his breathing comes quick and loud, the book lying face-down beside him. His heart pounds in his ears, his chest tight.

Footsteps approach, dark robes swishing in the corner of his blurred vision, and he tries desperately to compose himself. He sees elegant fingers pick the book up, and then someone kneels in front of him and there is a cool touch to each of his temples, pressing slightly and moving in small circles.

Slowly his breathing returns to normal, and he looks up at the Elf who is now moving back – it is Erestor. There is no pity in his gaze, as Glorfindel had expected, or surprise at finding the returned Balrog-slayer like this; only understanding and compassion.

“Would you like me to leave you, or shall I bring you to your rooms?” he asks quietly. Glorfindel’s first instinct is to ask him to leave, embarrassed about being found in such a state, but he still feels shaky.

“I would not mind the company,” he admits through dry lips, and Erestor nods and helps him up. 

The walk back to his rooms is quiet, but not unbearably so; Erestor has a hand tucked in the crook of his elbow as if they are two friends out for a walk, and has led him on a quiet route so that nobody passes them. Once inside, Erestor goes to the carafe on his sideboard and pours him a goblet of water.

“I am sorry for troubling you so,” Glorfindel begins to say after having drunk it, but Erestor holds a hand up to stop him.

“It was no trouble – and do not apologise for the book either,” he adds. “You are more valuable.”

“Because I am the Balrog-slayer and the Valar’s emissary?” He cannot help the twist of bitterness that steals into his words, and winces, but Erestor seems unruffled, gazing at him with the same calm expression he has worn since they left the library. 

“No. Because you were an Elf in pain.” Without giving him a chance to answer, Erestor turns and begins to rummage through his cupboards, bringing out the small kettle and crockery and cutlery and looking at the bare shelves as if displeased. Glorfindel can only gape at this Elf treating his things with so much familiarity and even judgment despite never having been inside his rooms before; certainly he seems more concerned with Glorfindel’s things than Glorfindel himself has been, thus far. 

“I will have the kitchens send up a box of chamomile tea that you can brew for yourself; it is calming, especially if you add honey.”

Something stirs within him, and Glorfindel realises that it is curiosity; he had been too overwhelmed to feel curious about anything, up until now. “Are you a Healer, then, as well as a Counsellor?”

“No.” Erestor meets his gaze, and in those green eyes is the distant light of Aman. “But I am old enough to have learned a thing or two.” Without waiting for an answer he sweeps past Glorfindel to the door. At the doorway he pauses, turning back. “Speak to Elrond, or to some other Healer, if your troubles grow too much. They can prescribe you stronger things than tea, and teach you techniques to calm yourself. In the meantime I have work that I must return to.” 

He pauses long enough to nod in acknowledgement of Glorfindel’s quiet, “Thank you,” and then leaves silently. Glorfindel sinks down onto the couch by the empty fireplace, lost in thought until a servant knocks on his door with the promised tea and a small pot of honey.

*

He finds Elrond’s gaze and gentle questions more bearable now; perhaps it is because he is calmer, or because Elrond, too, now shows only compassion and not pity, but either way, it helps. Elrond listens to whatever Glorfindel is willing to speak of, makes gentle suggestions, and teaches him calming breathing techniques.

He begins joining the other warriors on the training field, and this at least is familiar, the movement of the sword and the strain on his muscles at the end of a long afternoon of practice. They, too, are initially in awe of him, but that soon gives way to camaraderie and respect for his skills, and he can bear that easily enough. They laugh and bump shoulders with him, and he sits with them at mealtimes and tries to find familiar footing. 

The dizziness and quickness of breath happen again, when someone’s weapon gets caught in his hair and tugs during a practice mêlée. But among the young soldiers are hardened veterans and survivors, who have their own demons to battle at night, and they hold his hand and breathe with him as he struggles back to awareness with the breathing and grounding techniques Elrond taught him. They do not bring it up again, and he is more careful about binding his hair up and keeping it out of the way when he fights.

Gil-galad has him join the Council meetings, and speaks of giving him command of the armies as his present Captain is about to sail West. Glorfindel sits quietly at the Council table, and accepts the command of Lindon’s forces as his duty. This, at least, he knows how to do; soldiers are soldiers, no matter which Age they dwell in.  

Centuries have passed; their accent and clothes are strange now, some of the jokes they share foreign to him, but there is something that spans space and time in the shared weariness of a patrol shedding their armour and sitting down to a hot meal, and slowly he remembers what it is like to smile and mean it.

Sometimes in the late afternoons Erestor comes to find him and invites him on walks, or recommends a book, or brings him to hear the minstrels sing. Sometimes they talk, and other times they simply soak in their surroundings, and either way Glorfindel never feels pressured to fill the comfortable silences between them, never feels like Erestor is demanding anything. It is easy, being with him, for Erestor does not ask anything of Glorfindel, and is deft at carrying conversations and at gently but firmly getting rid of the occasional approaching star-struck Elf.

 And sometimes, in the evening, Gil-galad and Elrond and Erestor have Glorfindel join them for a private dinner, or for wine and a board game or a game of cards; they smile and draw him into their jokes and tales and pull smiles out of him, and he soaks it in as if it can make up for his own numbness inside, and responds as best as he can. Elrond is fond of riddles and tales, and Glorfindel thinks he can see Eärendil in him sometimes. 

Gil-galad is loud and boisterous and has enough force of personality for three Elves, so Glorfindel does not mind sitting by him and letting the King’s joy wash over him, though it often exhausts him by the end of the evening. Elrond and Erestor are quieter, but both show a wicked wit when it suits them and are deft at managing the conversation so that Glorfindel does not have to suffer through any awkwardness. Sometimes they even startle laughs out of him, and it feels pleasant.

“You should find a hobby,” Elrond advises him quietly one evening. “Something small and private and productive, to keep you busy on quiet evenings. Make something with your hands.” Glorfindel remembers whittling during long watches, and he goes to the woodworkers and gets what he needs and hacks at the soft wood scraps sometimes, more out of obedience than any true interest.

He keeps himself busy, and he can feel it helping, a little. The company helps, too.

At night, however, sleep is often slow to come even when he is physically exhausted, and eventually he admits this additional weakness to Elrond. The Peredhel simply smiles and gives him a vial of sleeping-draught and instructions on how to mix a drop or two into warm tea or milk before bed. It helps him fall asleep, and it even numbs the nightmares somewhat – they still come, but not as often, and sometimes he can sleep through them and move on to regular, nonsensical dreams about life in Lindon, or memories of Gondolin.

He can feel himself thawing inside.

*

He has been invited to Erestor’s rooms for tea, as is becoming a semi-regular occurrence; Erestor pours them tea or wine and sets out a plate of pastries, and they talk a little or play a game of _oetheg_. For all the time they have spent together lately, however, he does not know much of Erestor’s past, for the other Elf is a consummate diplomat, skilled at carrying on a conversation without revealing too much of himself.

He stares at the board, trying to work out how to get past the rather solid defence Erestor has put up while rolling a captured pawn of Erestor’s between finger and thumb, feeling the familiar grooves and smooth curves of the fine piece, carved from jet. It has become somewhat of a habit, carrying around small things or wearing simple jewellery so that he can keep his hands busy with something in quiet moments when he does not want to or cannot whittle, and he sees Erestor’s gaze alight upon the small movement before skittering back to the board.

“Were you ever a soldier?” he asks abruptly, for surely someone so skilled at strategy must have had _some_ military experience. Besides, he remembers that first encounter in his rooms, and he thinks that Erestor must at least have known some soldiers in his time, if he was not one himself.

He fancies he sees some surprise in those green eyes, though as Erestor shifts to steeple his fingers and begins to speak, his face is in its habitual calm expression.

“I was once a military commander, yes. I had little taste for the battlefield, however.” Those lips quirk a little. “You and I were even on the same battlefield once.”

It takes Glorfindel barely a second to work it out. “You fought at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

“Yes. You can imagine that I was not overfond of battle after that.”

“Whose banner were you under?”

“I will answer if you can take my king.” It’s faint, but that is definitely Erestor’s wicked, challenging smile, something he usually only sees in their evenings with the High King. Glorfindel bends over the board with renewed determination.

It is close, but eventually he reaches out with his last remaining captain and knocks over Erestor’s tall dark king, suffused with the glow of triumph. “There,” he grins, and looks up to see a strange expression on Erestor’s face before it is chased away by a small, calm smile.

“Well done.”

Glorfindel sits back, rubbing his thumb over the fine details of the horse his captain is seated upon. “So? Who was your leader?” He expects the other to name Fingon, or perhaps Gwindor.

Erestor is watching his expression. “Maedhros.”

“ _Maedhros_?” That, he had not expected, and his initial reaction is one of shock and discomfort – Erestor, serving a son of Fëanor?

But he looks at Erestor and remembers their first real encounter outside court, and recalls that many of the Gondolindrim had taken part in the First Kinslaying, and eventually he nods. 

“You were on the ships with them, then?” He does not need to ask if Erestor had seen the Trees; he can tell.

Erestor nods. “I was, eventually, the seneschal of Himring, but it was a harsh place and there was not one of us who was not also a soldier. I was one of his captains at the Nirnaeth.” His lips curve slightly, though his voice is softer, almost tentative as he adds, “I remember how it felt to see your banners approach.”

This is more information than Erestor has ever volunteered about himself at once, other than his preferences in food or music or literature, and Glorfindel soaks it in.

He has not sought out any contemporaries for the purpose of speaking of the First Age, and Elves of that age are few and far between anyway – though there are one or two survivors of Gondolin still living at Lindon, who had come to him and greeted him with joy and awe and asked him to share a cup of wine with them. He had not felt he could refuse such offers, but had avoided reminiscing. Now, though, he thinks he might be able to speak with Erestor about it without pain; the wounds are scabbing over, and Erestor’s presence is calming.

“We heard you,” he replies softly. “It is so strange, seeing events I lived through detailed in tomes of distant history.”

“Yes. It is odd even for me at times, and I suppose I took the long road to the present day in comparison to you; I can only imagine how strange it must be for you.” To Glorfindel’s surprise, the other Elf reaches out to press his hand briefly before withdrawing.

 Something else occurs to Glorfindel then. “Were you at Arvernien?” He almost winces at the blunt, nearly accusatory question, wants to take it back, but Erestor does not seem offended.

“No.” A shadow seems to pass over his face, and his gaze drops to the table. “I argued long and hard with Maedhros, counselling against it. I refused to go with them. But then they brought the twins back, and even if my loyalty to Maedhros had taken a bit of a beating, for their sake I am glad I stayed.” He looks up and smiles a little, and Glorfindel can see genuine fondness for the Peredhil twins in his expression.

As he lies in bed that night he can still see that expression in his mind’s eye.

*

They were meant to be drinking wine and playing cards in the High King’s sitting-room, but a chance remark by Elrond about some new outpost in the wilds of Eriador and Glorfindel’s subsequent question has resulted in Gil-galad excitedly rolling a map out across the table, nearly knocking a goblet over.

“There,” he points at a small, neatly-drawn circle, just on the other side of the Hithaeglir from Eregion and Laurelindórenan. “We thought it might be strategic to begin establishing an outpost, some sort of hidden keep, in the wilds on this side of the mountains as a link between us and the realms on the other side, to help keep the Wilds and the Great East Road safe for those who travel to the Havens to sail. As of yet it is nothing but a garrison, some plans for buildings, and a lot of hope, but we are making slow progress on the building.”

“I oversee this valley project,” Elrond adds, “and I shall make another trip in a few seasons to look in on them. It is a beautiful little place; it has a peaceful air about it, and my heart tells me that it will prove significant one day. Perhaps you should accompany me when I ride out for the valley, Glorfindel – I think the scenery may do you good, and I would value your opinion of it.”

“Perhaps I will,” Glorfindel replies, though he mislikes the idea of watching yet another Elven keep be built in a hidden valley. As he looks up from the map, he sees Erestor watching him thoughtfully before the other Elf gently but deftly steers the conversation towards building materials and the ridiculous price of Dwarven labour. 

*

Glorfindel supposes this is why he was sent back, but war would never have been a pleasant prospect even if he had been as whole as he was in the First Age. Gil-galad had been worried about Celebrimbor’s letters mentioning Annatar and their new projects, but none of them had expected this news.

He dutifully mounts his horse and rides out alongside Elrond and Erestor at the head of their forces, hoping that they will be in time and trying not to picture what will happen if they are not; he has never seen Eregion, but his mental picture of it keeps morphing into burning white towers.  

*

He is tired; his body is exhausted from the fighting and from the long, desperate ride to the valley alongside the refugees of Eregion, but he also feels emotionally drained and empty.

He had faced Annatar, or rather Sauron, and seeing the glittering malice in those burning eyes was like facing the Balrog all over again. The sight of Celebrimbor’s body will not leave him, and the smell of burning buildings and bodies had nearly sent him into another of his breathless attacks of memory, but now he feels greyed-out, has done so for days.

 _At least I survived this time,_ he thinks numbly.

It is late by the time they reach the valley, and the soldiers and labourers there are prepared for them. Glorfindel barely has enough energy to finish a small bowl of stew he cannot taste and a skin of cold water; he shucks his armour and gambeson, frees his hair from its braided coils, and falls into the provided sleeping-roll. For once his body co-operates and he falls asleep immediately. 

He shudders awake some hours later, gasping for air and blinking away the images of death as his eyes adjust. For a long horrible moment, he thinks he is surrounded by bodies, but then in the dim pre-dawn light he makes out countless other sleeping Elves around him under the crude beginnings of a hall, lying on sleeping-rolls and mats and cloaks and the bare ground. As he watches, many of the Elves shift restlessly and cry out in their sleep.

Footsteps sound behind him and he twists, hand groping for a weapon before he remembers where he is. Erestor comes into view, clad in the dark form-fitting clothing he wears under his armour but with his twin swords at his sides, and seems unsurprised to see him awake.

“We shall have to soundproof every bedroom in this place,” the darker Elf murmurs quietly, “when we redraw the plans.”

Glorfindel stares at him. Erestor sighs and holds a hand out.

They step around and between sleeping Elves and away from the hall, which is really just a hastily-built shelter of woven branches over the foundations of a building. Still holding his hand, Erestor leads him uphill, past a quiet sentry and around the smouldering embers of a cookfire to a little outcrop overlooking the valley, some distance away from the campsite.

“Sit. Breathe.”

A small thread of annoyance steals through Glorfindel, a small spark in his otherwise greyed-out emotions, and he bats Erestor’s hand away. Why should Erestor always be so unflappable and knowing? Why should Erestor always see him like this, condescendingly telling him what to do and how to cope when _he_ does not seem to have ever grieved anything?

“Do you feel nothing?”

Erestor leans against a tree, arms folded as he faces him, and his casual posture annoys Glorfindel further. He holds on to it, lets the feeling burn cleanly through the grief and pain and numbness and relishes it. “How can you be so cold and unaffected? Elrond wept as we rode here. There was so much death, so much destruction, and now the Noldor are refugees once again, and yet you walk around calmly thinking about building alterations.” He is breathing heavily.

Erestor’s expression is unreadable for a long moment before he sighs again, scrubbing a hand across his face. Now he just looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes and dirt smudged high on one sharp cheekbone, and it occurs to Glorfindel that he probably has not slept. “I thought you would understand wanting to keep busy.”

The anger drains out of Glorfindel as Erestor continues, “What good would it do anyone if I sat here and wept? That is not the way my mind works, Glorfindel, and I can hardly help that. Even as I mourn the dead, I worry about the living and whether we have enough food and bedding and medicine for them, if the supplies from Lindon will reach us in time, if we will be able to post more guards and build more shelters, if we can forage more food. I wonder about where they will be housed in the long-term, and about the logical answer, and how they can be made comfortable here in what was meant to be a military outpost. And I worry about rationing, and organising them, and logistics. I do not feel that I can afford the leisure of grief, not when there is so much to do, though I see the dead when I sleep. I do not expect all others to feel as I do, and if I seem cold, so be it.”

Tiredness seeps backs into his limbs and weighs him down, and Glorfindel drops ungracefully to sit on the dew-damp grass. Erestor pushes away from the tree and seats himself too, cross-legged next to him.

“I am sorry, I do not know what came over me,” Glorfindel begins, and Erestor simply nods silently. “I can help, with the work and the organisation. But you will have to tell me what to do.”

A small smile curves Erestor’s lips, just for a moment. “For now, you can watch the Sun rise over the valley with me. We will have work enough afterwards.”

They sit for a while, Glorfindel focusing on breathing deeply; he feels like the fallow fields some distance inland from Lindon, exhausted and empty but slowly being replenished, growing ready to be used again. The air is cool and fresh and clean, and the high peaks are becoming limned in gold, the shadowed valley lightening before them. Slowly, the Sun crests the mountains and floods the valley with gold, lighting up the trees and setting the waters of the Bruinen ablaze.

When Erestor speaks his voice is even more hushed than before, as if unwilling to break this spell. “I intend to write to Gil-galad and recommend that Elrond and I stay here for a while. There is much to do. Perhaps you might stay, as well. Your second-in-command can handle Lindon’s forces for a while.”

He thinks about it, as the Sun slowly warms his chilled limbs. “Perhaps I will.”

It is a beautiful place, Glorfindel thinks, and for the first time since leaving Lindon – perhaps even longer, since Valinor – he finds himself looking forward to the day ahead. This time he has survived the retreat, and now comes the rebuilding. And unlike the strange old-newness of Lindon, this as-yet-unnamed valley outpost is a new start.

*

Erestor and some architects from Eregion and Lindon draw up new plans for the valley’s buildings and layout, and Elrond names it Imladris. It is a good name, thinks Glorfindel, as he helps haul wood and stone and water. Something about the hard labour and the clean air helps quiet his mind, and even though he no longer has a soundproofed room and has run out of what little sleeping tonic he had brought, he finds himself sleeping a little more quietly. Not every night – he fears he will never truly be free of the nightmares – but he is thankful for the many quiet nights he does have, and for the fact that nobody looks at him differently for it in this valley of refugees and soldiers.

When Glorfindel is not running errands for Elrond or Erestor, training with the Imladris soldiers or helping with the construction, he returns to whittling and starts branching out, helping the woodcarvers; he has found a new appreciation for it here, now that he can make useful things like cups and bowls and stools. At meals he slowly lets himself get drawn into the conversations, and without quite realising it, he starts making friends; Lindir, Melpomaen, Morfinnel, Caragnîn, Isteth and others sit with him and chat over waybread and stews, and countless others smile and call out to him as they all go about their work. It is much more casual than Lindon, and yet busier.

He and Erestor share a small tent, since shelter is still scarce – even Elrond’s pavilion is now the healing tent, crowded with the sick and wounded and with those Elves with some healer’s training, preparing poultices and changing bandages under Elrond’s directions, and Elrond himself sleeping on a small pallet in a corner. Eventually Glorfindel grows used to the nightly sight of Erestor combing his hair out and braiding it back evenly without the need for a mirror before lying down and bidding him a quiet goodnight, nothing but their weapons and waterskins and the debris of a shared camp life separating their bedrolls. On the few occasions when the nightmares return, Erestor quietly reaches across and squeezes his hand in the dark tent until his breathing returns to normal, and then they settle back down to sleep and do not speak of it in the morning.

If Erestor has nightmares, he hides them well.

*

Sometimes in quiet moments Glorfindel struggles to define himself; he had been a Lord in his first life, and a soldier in both, and now his fighting ability and leadership are no longer the focal point of his life and his usefulness – now he creates useful little everyday things, and helps train young Elves from Eregion, and slowly, quietly, begins to join in the conversation and song around the fires at night. The Elves from Eregion had been grieving too much to be star-struck by him at first, and now they see him as Glorfindel of Imladris, who works beside them, rather than Glorfindel of Gondolin. He feels relieved about this, and then guilty – is he not betraying the memory of Turgon and Idril and Tuor, Ecthelion and Egalmoth and Rog and the members of his own crumbled House, by being so glad to move on?

But he remembers helping build Gondolin – and realises that he can think of it now without grief – and thinks that, perhaps, they would be happy for him, and proud of what he is helping build here and now.

And then he joins another work crew, or Erestor joins him at lunch with a bowl of stew and a barely-there smile, and his mind quietens.

*

The mood in the Imladris camp is always celebratory when the wagons from Lindon are spotted, and scouts are sent to help guide them on the steep, narrow, hidden path into the valley. In addition to such necessities as grain, seeds, produce, fabric and building materials that they cannot get from nearby settlements, they bring money to pay the Dwarven labourers from Moria, and letters from loved ones in Lindon.

Glorfindel gets brief missives from Astorien, whom he had left in charge of Lindon’s forces, reassuring him that all is well with them. Today, however, instead of being handed the note by Melpomaen, Elrond and Erestor join him at the rough wooden table where he is eating his pottage, each bearing quite a thick sheaf of correspondence. He puts his spoon down and looks up at them, waiting.

Elrond fixes him with a serious gaze. “I have an announcement to make at dinner tonight, but I thought it best to discuss it with you first.”

Glorfindel shrugs. “I am nobody of consequence here, Elrond. The two of you make the decisions. What could you need to discuss with me?”

Smiling slightly, Elrond replies, “Well, that may change. You know that Imladris was originally meant to be a military outpost that I oversaw, and that it has now become a refuge, of sorts – a small Elven settlement in its own right.”

Smiling in response, Glorfindel makes a point of looking at the sky, as if to check the sun’s progress. “Will you be done by nightfall, Elrond, or are you testing my memory?” It is small and personal but significant progress, that he can joke thus, and even as he says it he takes a moment to savour the feeling, as well as the small amused quirk to Erestor’s lips.

“Cheeky,” Elrond admonishes, grinning. “Well, Gil-galad and I have been discussing this for a while. We have decided that it is best if I stay here, at least for now, to truly establish Imladris as an Elven realm, and to rule it as Gil-galad’s representative, as it will be a vassal state of Lindon.”

The blond Elf nods, mulling this over. He has wondered about this, seeing how content Elrond clearly is in this valley. And where Elrond goes, Erestor follows; his gaze has already moved to the former High Counsellor of Lindon.

He wonders if he is being sent back to Lindon, and his stomach twists; this valley and his little tent already feel more like home to him than the seaside palace.

Erestor meets his gaze and lifts his stack of letters slightly. “I spoke about this with him as well, and with my deputy, Hanthael. I will be staying here to help Elrond run this place, and she will take my place on Lindon’s Council.” His smile is small, but gentle. “And we spoke of you. If you wish to return, he will be glad of it; but should you prefer to remain here, Astorien is capable of taking your place there, and Elrond and I would be glad for you to lead the Imladrim. I believe Gil-galad has sent you a letter with this offer as well.”

 “The choice is yours,” Elrond adds softly, “but you should know that we would like you to stay.”

Glorfindel takes a deep breath, lets it out, and shuts his suddenly damp eyes for a moment. This is, perhaps, the first real _choice_ he has had in a long time. And yet there is no choice, not for him.

“I will stay,” he says, and Elrond beams at him. Erestor’s joy is far more restrained, but he does squeeze Glorfindel’s hand before handing over a few letters addressed to him.

Glorfindel takes the letters, running his thumb over the parchment and the indents of wax seals, and remembers the first sunrise he had seen here and the feeling of potential that it had brought. He smiles.

*

Imladris is finished, and its inhabitants are moving in. Glorfindel follows Erestor quietly to a small, quiet corridor near Elrond’s wing, fingers tight around the strap of his pack.

“My new rooms are just down there,” Erestor points down the corridor. “But there is another suite of rooms here. Your choice of home is up to you, of course, and there are some quite nice chambers one floor down I can take you to if you prefer, or cottages in the village. But as his friend and distant kinsman, and as Captain of Imladris, you are entitled to live here if you wish. And I know you will be a tolerable neighbour,” he adds teasingly.

Glorfindel notes the absence of any of his old titles, and it helps soothe him; he is happy that Imladris is complete, of course, but he had grown used to the rhythms of camp life and labour and sharing a tent with this Elf. He shrugs. “As long as I have a bed and a bathroom, I will be satisfied.”

“I must confess I am very much looking forward to a hot bath, and trying the new system the Dwarves installed. Hot water with the turn of a lever is worth all the gold and pearls we paid them.”

And although they have undressed around each other in the tent countless times, and although he has seen Erestor scrubbing himself clean in the Bruinen, for some reason the thought of Erestor enjoying a private bath suddenly makes something entirely different curl through Glorfindel’s stomach. He ignores it for now, turning the handle and stepping into the room.

It is bright and airy, with walls of plain white plaster, and as he walks past the empty sitting-room and balcony into the bedroom he sees that the only bits of furniture in there are a bed – in fact, it is one that he had made himself, with simple but elegant carvings on the headboard – and a small table. He remembers the frantic rush of making beds and tables and chairs over the past season, and seeing his work here and now, ready to be used in a permanent dwelling, fills him with a warm glow of joy and pride. Grinning, he turns to point it out to Erestor, but realises that the darker Elf is closer than he had remembered, something in his expression that Glorfindel cannot put a name to. They stand like that for a moment, the air between them growing tense – it almost feels like Glorfindel’s old quickness of breath, though he has not had that in a long time, and this is milder and more pleasant – before Erestor steps back, dropping his gaze. “I shall leave you to settle in, then, and will see you tonight.” He exits gracefully, leaving Glorfindel staring at the door and trying to sort through his emotions.

Erestor is his friend, and yet… He slumps onto the bed, trying to remember the last time he had felt attracted to anyone. Certainly not since Gondolin, at least, and nothing had ever come of it. And he has not even thought of such things since waking in Lórien’s garden.

It is highly unlikely anything will come of it now, either. Sighing, he rises, leaves his pack at the foot of the bed, and begins heading back down to the campsite to get the rest of his things.

*

Glorfindel leans back languidly against the side of the sunken tub and sighs in contentment, the heat of the water seeping into his bones as it laps against his chest. He has not had a proper hot bath in over two years now, but he does not remember them feeling this good even in Lindon.

He begins to work the lather into his hair, fingers curving and blunt nails scraping along his scalp, thumbs pressing into his temples, and breathes the pleasant clean scent of his soap in.

When he is fresh and clean and drying himself off in the sienna-tiled bathroom, he takes a moment to pause and enjoy the sensation of being cleaner than he has been in a long time, the air still moist and humid and pleasant-smelling from his bath. Despite his Erestor-related revelation and the knowledge that their little tent is now no more, a small smile tugs at his lips as he re-enters his bright little room; there is still a light, buoyant sort of joy in him as he moves around and dresses, enjoying the slide of fresh linen against his skin and the slight breeze from the open window moving through his hair. There is no more building work to do, but there will be other tasks, and tonight they will celebrate this refuge that they have all built together, and he thinks of the food and wonders if he will know any of the dances. The thought is not accompanied by melancholy, only expectant curiosity.

When was the last time he had felt like _this_? After such a long time of feeling greyed-out and numb, it is almost overwhelming to experience so many joyful sensations and emotions again, though he realises that this has been building inside him for a while. Clad only in his breeches, he lets himself fall into bed and shuts his eyes, the sunlight warm on his skin as he focuses on one of the breathing exercises. He can feel the greyness still there, like a shadow that will never really fade, but he also feels calm, and quiet joy and anticipation curl up his spine, and he tries to put a name to it all.

 _Hope_. His eyes open _._

*

The first night of celebratory feasting and revelry within Imladris’ new halls is slowly drawing to an end. Glorfindel can still hear distant strains of music from what has been christened the Hall of Fire, growing fainter with each step the two Elves take. In his hand he bears a beautifully calligraphed scroll, officially naming him Captain of Imladris and bearing the seals of the High King and his Herald, and it feels like a promise binding him to this valley and its lord, as if he is finally settling into place. It feels like continuity, and yet not, for Elrond is not Turgon and Imladris will never be as sealed-off from the world outside as Gondolin had been.

He glances at the Elf beside him, now Chief Counsellor of Imladris. It is strange to see Erestor in robes again; he had worn little else in Lindon, but then there had been Eregion and battle, and then in Imladris he, like everyone else, had worn armour or simple tunics and trousers. Now he is once again in fine robes, with a circlet on his brow, and it feels as though the Erestor he had known over rough bowls of stew and in their quiet tent is no more.

They pause before Glorfindel’s door, and Erestor turns to him and smiles. “I bid you a good night, Glorfindel. I imagine you must be relieved to have your own rooms again; I am certainly looking forward to a proper bed. I understand I have you to thank for it, in fact.” Something of Glorfindel’s thoughts must show on his face; Erestor tilts his head slightly. “What is it?”

Glorfindel shrugs, embarrassed. “I am glad enough of the space, truly, but –” He pauses. Erestor’s expression is calm, open, and Glorfindel ploughs ahead. “I had grown rather used to the company. It was – nice. I know you are not far, and it is simply something to get used to, but. I will miss having you next to me.”

Erestor merely hums thoughtfully. There is something almost assessing about his scrutiny, and Glorfindel is reminded of their first meeting.

“May I stay the night?” he asks suddenly, and Glorfindel blinks.

 “I – what?”

“To sleep.” Perhaps it is only his imagination, but Glorfindel thinks he can see some uncertainty in Erestor’s eyes, a small crease between those brows.

“Yes,” he says, far too quickly, before Erestor can take it back.

“Well, then.” Erestor turns towards his own rooms, confusing Glorfindel for a moment before he holds up one trailing sleeve as if in explanation. “I will be back shortly.”

It takes a few fumbling tries before he can even open his own door. Glorfindel carefully tucks the scroll away and goes about lighting a candle in his bedroom. He changes into a light nightshirt and soft sleeping trousers, very carefully not thinking about anything but his ablutions until he is interrupted by the soft knock on the door.

Erestor enters, dressed much the same way with his long hair loose around his shoulders. They return to the bedroom quietly, and when Erestor sits on the far edge of the bed and begins to braid his hair back, something unclenches within Glorfindel’s chest; it is still _his_ Erestor. The soft, warm light of the candle turns his Noldor-dark skin to bronze, and a hush seems to have settled over the room – it is like their little tent, and yet more, somehow.

Glorfindel releases his own hair from its high tail and slides under the soft blanket, watching the other Elf tie his braid off and flick it over a shoulder casually, candlelight playing across the long line of his neck.

“You seem happier,” Erestor says quietly, and he thinks about it before replying.

“I am,” he agrees. “I do not know if all I needed was time, or if being here in Imladris helped, though I know for sure that you and Elrond helped more than I can say.” He reaches across the bed and squeezes Erestor’s hand, thumb moving over warm smooth skin and the bumps and dips of knuckles before releasing it.

“It will never really go away, you know.”

“I know. But I think I can live with it, now. Thank you,” he adds, and Erestor waves a hand.

“You have nothing to thank me for. Your victories are your own.” Then he leans forward, and Glorfindel’s breath catches. Soft lips brush lightly over his own before Erestor pulls back, giving him a small but warm, familiar smile. “Goodnight, Glorfindel.”

It takes Glorfindel a moment to remember to blow the candle out, and he suspects that Erestor can see his wide grin anyway. He lies down, feeling the heat of Erestor’s body next to him. In the dark, their hands meet.

*

Glorfindel blinks awake slowly, turning his head to burrow further into his pillow. He feels calm and rested; if he had any dreams, he does not recall them. He also feels warm and contented, and as he shifts and approaches full awareness he realises that Erestor is here, in his bed, and that in the night they have shifted to curl up against each other, legs tangled together. He can smell the faint scent of sandalwood that always seems to follow Erestor, and for a long moment he does not know if his heart can handle this much joy. 

The room is dim, but steadily growing brighter, and he shifts to rest on his elbow, looking up to notice that his window faces East, with a pleasant view of waterfalls and a gap in the Hithaeglir. The Sun is rising over the mountains, once again flooding the valley with gold and illuminating his room; he averts his eyes from its brightness, and sees Erestor shift and blink up at him, limned in golden light, eyes soft and warm and affectionate.

“Good morning,” Glorfindel says softly, and smiles.

~*~

 

Art by [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy)

**Author's Note:**

> Man, this got weirdly autobiographical towards the end. While I did base a lot of this on my own depression, some bits were actually very similar to how my partner and I got together, though I suppose I was Erestor in that scenario. <_< Not sure how we thought sharing a bed just to sleep was going to be totally platonic and purely comforting in this time of depression and support, but we did manage it for a while before we ended up kissing one night. <_____<
> 
> Thank you, Rai and peasantswhy, for your patience with me as I worked on this. And thank you, Mark, for being the best partner I could ever imagine.


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